


'Tis Nobler (in the Mind)

by mackiedockie



Category: Highlander - All Media Types, Highlander: The Series
Genre: Angst, Bondage, Community: hlh_shortcuts, Dubious Consent, M/M, Multi, Slash, Snark, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-20
Updated: 2007-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-17 22:25:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mackiedockie/pseuds/mackiedockie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>MacLeod holds a champagne farewell party for his friends. He plans to disappear into the fog and get away from it all for a while. Get his head together. Chill. Surprisingly, this time his friends have plans of their own. They don't involve a certain Immortal walking off alone and unWatched into the foggy night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'Tis Nobler (in the Mind)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [killabeez](https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/gifts).



> Set immediately after the events in _To Be/Not To Be_ at the end of the series, with spoilers for that episode. Many thanks for beta work from adabsolutely, keerawa and amberleewriter, without whom it would not have been finished. All contained errors (and errors of judgement) are mine. Minor edits have been made to the original posting.

**Joe**

The searing bolts of O'Roarke's quickening exploded around the deserted train station, and electricity spattered and danced on every metal surface. MacLeod twisted under the barrage, arching at each invading bolt.

Joe Dawson twitched in empathy with each blow, forcing himself to watch. MacLeod was alive. That was all that mattered. He lived. This time. After the shattered Highlander wandered away from the aftermath of O'Roarke's beheading, Joe closed his eyes, swaying with weariness, his fragile balance taxed too far. Immediately Methos' hand gripped his shoulder, strong and steady. With slightly more tact, Amanda eased her hand under his elbow, not quite touching.

He shook them both off, not quite snarling.

"Where are you hurt, Joe?" Methos asked, too softly for MacLeod's ears.

Joe acted as if he hadn't heard either, looking around the room, squinting into shadows. Counting bodies. "How many gunmen did you take out down the tunnel?" he asked quietly. Again, so MacLeod wouldn't hear.

"One, and the one here," Methos frowned. Amanda searched the shadows warily.

Joe just nodded, "I was afraid of that. There's still one out there. O'Roarke's Watcher was guarding the entrance."

"Methos and I will take care of it, Joe," Amanda brushed at a boot-shaped smudge of oily dirt on his vest. "Right after we take care of you."

Joe caught her hand. "You have to keep an eye on MacLeod. Make sure he's okay. And you all have to get out of here before I can call a cleanup crew."

"Is that wise, Joe? We don't know if O'Roarke's Watcher saw anything."

"I know. And he saw enough." Joe gazed at them bleakly. "If I don't follow protocol, they'll know I'm hiding something."

Methos frowned. "You had a Watcher right here? And he was helping O'Roarke?"

"A lot more effectively than I was helping MacLeod," Joe said acidly.

Amanda shook her head, furious at the memory. "He was the one who kicked Joe in the ..."

"Shut up, Amanda." Joe's eyes were bright with pain and glittered with anger. He had absolutely no tolerance left for being treated like a victim.

Amanda shut up. And waited.

Joe looked up. Down. Sideways. And caved. "I'm sorry, Amanda. That was rude."

Amanda smiled sunnily, slight already forgotten. "Then you'll let your kindly family Doctor Methos take you home and check your ribs. And other, more delicate parts. Unless you would prefer Nurse Darrieux?"

Joe paled at the very thought. "Okay, okay. It's not that bad. I'll let the old man tape me up if you stay with MacLeod and make sure he gets home. Sit on him if you have to."

"You'd be more fun," Amanda lamented with a sigh. Still, she wasted no time following in the Highlander's footsteps.

"Watcher or Hunter?" Methos asked abruptly as they made their way slowly out of the station.

Joe rubbed the back of his neck where he'd been jabbed by the syringe. "I don't know. Maybe a Hunter. Maybe he had to make it look good for O'Roarke. Maybe he just isn't one of my fans. Amazingly, there's a hell of a lot of perfectly ordinary Watchers that don't like me. Go figure."

"I am shocked and appalled. But that doesn't completely explain why O'Roarke took you."

"Someone had to tell O'Roarke I knew Mac. But that's my problem. Not yours, and damn sure not Mac's from now on." Joe peered over suspiciously. "Why do you ask?"

"You don't usually assign MacLeod a bodyguard," Methos observed dryly. "It was quite masterful of you."

"Mac needs someone to make sure I don't kill him myself." Joe smacked an innocent rock out of his path with his cane, sending it a respectable distance.

"We'll draw straws. You're thinking Mac will evaporate into some monastery again?" Methos paused as Joe stalled to regroup.

"Yeah, that too," Joe tiredly agreed. "Keep an eye on him, will you, if he bolts? At least get the temple address out of him this time. Email. Something."

"Isn't that usually your job, Watcher? Tea, condolence and a nice, warm .45 caliber?" Methos teased experimentally.

Fury lanced through Joe's weariness. "What Mac did...that was wrong. That was just wrong. He was going to give up his head. For nothing."

"For you, Joe. Not for nothing," Methos said evenly, his eyes averted as if looking for his car.

Joe looked at Methos as if he'd lost his mind. "For nothing," he repeated.

 

Joe arrived last at MacLeod's farewell party, and left first. He had armored himself for the leavetaking in a new suit, lending an air of formality to the ceremony. His earlier anger was wrapped up and tied away as tightly as his cracked ribs. Most of the night Joe leaned against the barge bulkhead by the porthole, and if Methos' hooded eyes noted that he regularly scanned the quay and bridge for Watchers, he gave no sign. He stood the entire time, for MacLeod had stripped the barge of comfortable furniture during the Ahriman debacle.

After MacLeod's small final speech, Joe endured an utterly unexpected kinsman's embrace, the last of his anger fading into bemusement. His eyes followed MacLeod around the barge, taking notice of how Amanda slid a sinuous arm around MacLeod's body at every opportunity, and of the way Methos unconsciously squared his shoulders and hips when the Highlander leaned close. MacLeod was still fevered with O'Roarke's Quickening, and the Immortals were moths to his flame. Joe felt like a moth, too. One of the burned out husks that littered the ground around a porch light. "I'm outta here. You kids be good."

"But Joe..." Amanda whirled to him, draping her arms around his neck. "I was hoping you'd...stay."

"Hah! I don't think so. It's motel thirty for this old Watcher." He managed a certain smile, just for her and leaned carefully into her embrace, leaving a nearly chaste kiss on her pouting lips. Not quite nuzzling her neck, he whispered "I owe you, Lady. You can call in that marker any time. Any time soon, I hope."

Amanda cocked her head, studying his eyes for a moment. "Oh. Joe. You do know the way to a lady's heart." The words were lightly said, but a hint of tears glittered behind her long lashes. She tapped him very lightly on the chest, mindful of his bruises. "You, sir, can Watch me any time."

Joe managed to laugh and leer without breaking anything new. "I'll take you up on that someday, Lady," he promised, and regretfully started to pull away.

The Lady Amanda gripped Joe's tie and pulled him close. Very close. "Someday very soon," she promised, and her return kiss burned up the Montmartre definition of le jazz hot. "I'll walk you to your car, Joe," Amanda murmured, linking her elbow with his and guiding him solemnly to the barge gangway.

At the door Joe pulled away long enough to wave to his host. "Take care, Mac," with an extra emphasis and long last look.

"I'll see you around, Joe," MacLeod smiled with offhand surety, his expression lightened by Amanda's teasing.

"Yeah. Down the line," Joe allowed, with only the tiniest hesitation, before disappearing into the night.

 

 **Methos**

Methos watched them leave in silence, then moved the porthole to check their progress as they made their careful way down the narrow gangplank and onto the quay. He relaxed slightly when Amanda slipped gracefully into the passenger seat next to Joe. Joe barely put up a token fight.

MacLeod finished washing up the glasses, his reflection in the porthole thoughtful. "Joe and Amanda. Do you think I should be worried?" he joked, clearly hoping to break through Methos' contained demeanor. The obsessive attention to cleaning each champagne flute betrayed his quickening frayed nerves.

Methos turned from the porthole and nabbed one of the clean glasses, pouring himself some more champagne. "You already worry too much. It's a character flaw. Amanda can take care of herself."

Annoyed, MacLeod meticulously arranged the rest of the glasses on the shelf. "I was thinking about Joe."

"Way too late, MacLeod," Methos said, carefully studying the bubbles. "That Heartbreak Express left the station a long time ago."

MacLeod stiffened. "That's no way to talk about Joe. He's earned more respect than that."

Methos stilled, then very carefully placed the delicate champagne glass safely on the sideboard. Turning ever so slightly, he leaned into MacLeod's personal space. "More respect than casting him as an ineffectual drunk?"

Methos shifted his stance, subtly rebalancing himself. "More respect than depicting him as a helpless wretch?"

MacLeod took a step backwards, instinctively distancing himself from Methos' visceral aura of danger. "It was...just a dream." MacLeod's hesitation betrayed him. He wasn't lying to Methos. Lying to himself was another matter.

"Was it? Then it's clear that I need to teach you one more lesson." Methos raised no hand, touched no weapon. Still, MacLeod felt his back crawl against the cool barge bulkhead as Methos slid under his guard, inches away. "Joe took wounds today, body and spirit, in your cause. Yet you didn't even offer him guest right under your own roof."

MacLeod colored at the insult. "He wouldn't accept," he objected in a low voice, but Methos snarled, silencing him.

"You've never asked. Don't lecture me about respect, MacLeod. Joe is my friend. Joe is my brother. I've fought with him, I've insulted him, I've even deserted him in his hour of need. But I would never disrespect him by committing suicide at his very feet." Methos extended his hand in slow insolence, touching the thin skin just below MacLeod's ear with the tips of two fingers. With exquisite tenderness he traced the curve of MacLeod's neck. An artery beat against the pads of his fingers like butterfly wings.

"He loves you, MacLeod. We all do. Joe most of all. But Joe's different from us. He'll only take what is offered." Methos stroked MacLeod's throat with a hint of ownership. "Amanda and I are predators. We take what we need." Methos leaned forward until their chests grazed each other, shifting MacLeod's balance onto his heels. The tips of his fingers now massaged the soft skin in the hollow of the throat.

"We take..." and Methos' unheeded free hand darted between them, to curl possessively around MacLeod's clothed cock, tugging sharply, "...what we want."

MacLeod's hips twitched. Forward. Into the hand. Methos' expression was too feral to call a smile. "Is this what you want, MacLeod?" With insidious patience, Methos withdrew his grip until just his thumb and forefinger squeezed and stroked the twitching head of the cock through the soft folds of layered cotton.

His quarry's eyes widened, scenting the trap, but the unsettled energy coursing through his veins eroded his body's disciplines in a rising flood of need. Now he rocked forward, demanding more. "I want you. Now." He reached blindly for Methos' cock, fully meaning to match and master him stroke for stroke.

The circling fingertips left his neck. Methos slammed the wandering hand into the bulkhead, pinning it next to his hip. His lips just brushed MacLeod's ear. "Ah, ah. No touching. Not until I say you may." And now Methos' tongue darted out to taste the shell of the ear, his breath hot and quick. "Hands against the wall. If you move them, I'll have to tie you down." Methos stared at him, challenging him to obey.

Fully aroused, MacLeod still held enough stubborn pride to meet the dare, and his palms slapped the wall. "Do you think I can't hold on?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps not," Methos began toying with MacLeod's thin belt, slipping the clasp and fingering the button fly until just the head of his cock inched free. "You are a predator, too, Highlander, born and bred. Let's see what you can take."

Now Methos' long-fingered hands roamed freely over MacLeod's body, teasing open his shirt and tracing his ribs, pinching and prying, mapping every hitch and sudden breath that betrayed the body beneath him. He used his tongue as a weapon, stabbing into the sensitive folds of MacLeod's neck. His teeth worried an aureole, too sharp to ignore, too gentle to satisfy. Methos lowered himself so slowly that when his tongue flicked a circle around MacLeod's navel the Highlander rose to his toes to in frustrated agony. But he did not move his hands.

Methos ran his hands over MacLeod's thighs, fingers brushing the cloth over the thin inner skin. Sinking gracefully to his knees he tipped his head, contemplating MacLeod's clenching fingers and strained face. "Spread your legs, MacLeod. I'm going to need all the room I can get." Methos hid a grin in the most efficient way possible, by sucking just the wide head of MacLeod's cock into his mouth, shallowly sucking only the topmost inch. His tongue jabbed and speared in a broken rhythm, mocking MacLeod's attempts to thrust deeper.

Since MacLeod hadn't heeded the suggestion to spread his long legs, Methos took tiny punishments, palming and fingering his balls through the stretching fabric, tweaking and twisting, hinting at just enough pain to make the pleasure unendurable.

MacLeod groaned, and swore, and thrust more frantically, but Methos teased and denied, promising everything, holding back all. And so MacLeod took what he wanted, tearing his hands away from the wall and snatching the buttons open with one hand while capturing Methos by the scruff of the neck with the other. With a vengeful growl he established his own rhythm, plunging deeper with every stroke, enjoying even the feel of Methos' hands scrabbling at his waist as he took control. But his control was too far gone--with a victorious cry that bordered on despair, he came, shuddering.

MacLeod found himself helpfully supported by Methos against the barge wall when his senses cleared. He attempted to push off the wall and stand on his own, but ended up staring at his wrists, securely bound together by three loops of his own thin Italian belt.

"You moved," Methos observed, running his tongue over the corner of his mouth. "I win. I get the prize." With the lightest of tugs, he gently guided the sex-fogged Highlander to his own bed, settling him comfortably, attaching the last loop in the belt to the headboard. "Now let's see what's behind Curtain Number Three," Methos added with unrepressed glee. His nimble fingers stole away MacLeod's shoes and shiny pants, and even pilfered his socks .

"What have we here?" Methos said brightly as he fished around the foot of the bed. "Mooring lines? How nautical. You must have been a Sea Scout." Before MacLeod could puzzle out the statement, Methos had cinched one ankle with a soft nylon line and secured it under the bedframe. He made a game of trapping the last leg, laughing as he evaded a sharp kick and pinned an ankle, stretching the Highlander wide across the bed.

MacLeod tugged experimentally at his bonds, more than a bit dubious at this unexpected development. "You stole the painter from the skiff?"

"Moi? Never." Methos dangled the loose end, studying the fraying strands. Experimentally, he brushed the knotted end across the arch of MacLeod's foot, with pleasing results. "Luckily, Amanda planned ahead. You really never know what treasures she might hide under your bed when you lend her your keys. I hope Joe remembers that."

MacLeod craned his neck, trying to see what else Methos was rummaging after under the bed. He popped up with a bright smile and a small but finely made teak chest. "See? Treasures."

"Enough, Methos. This has gone far enough. Amanda could be back any time now."

"The more the merrier . Joe might even change his mind and come back for a nightcap," Methos speculated, kicking off his shoes. "I'd like to read that Chronicle. You do know that Joe has quite a gift for narrative description. I wonder what he'd make of this?" He stored the chest safely back under the bed and held up a small amber vial.

MacLeod's eyes narrowed. "That looks like... ,"

"...Cinnamon oil, yes." He opened the vial and touched his tongue to the cap. Inhaling with a hiss, Methos leaned down and licked the tip of MacLeod's breast. "Burns, yes?"

MacLeod arched, his eyes wide with wary desire. "No. Yes. Devil." The cinnamon scent drifted in the room, summoning memories of Constantinople, and harems, and pinning Amanda in a drifted sea of silken sheets. The memory blurred, and MacLeod imagined Methos dressed in loose desert robes and a turban.

Methos' fingertip stroked his hardening shaft, leaving a faint trail of fire. "Your body recognizes the scent. As does mine." Methos drew away to stand at the foot of the bed. With a mischievous gleam he wetted his finger again and traced a new design under the arch of MacLeod's other foot, painting only the tenderest skin. "Does that tickle?"

MacLeod bared his teeth and shifted, fighting to keep from flinching. "Let me loose and I'll let you know. I'll paint designs on you all night long. I'll draw the Mona Lisa on your bare balls."

"I'll look forward to that," Methos laughed and yanked his sweater off, tossing it over the kitchen counter. With care he fingered the nub of his own breast, staring into another space as if he were the one put on display. For a fleeting moment, his face revealed his own long memories of smoke-blackened tent poles and mislaid companions. Then the memories were crowded away by the fiercer pleasures of the present as the oil sank in and heated his pebbled skin.

Methos bared the rest of his body with slow ritual, running his hands over the long muscles of his legs and arms. With invisible fire he traced icons and signs, wards and sigils, some from tribes that had vanished before Homer sang to the Greeks. He moved with unconscious grace, and unfettered abandon.

MacLeod lost himself in the primitive dance, occasionally releasing a sigh or groan when a drop of oil trickled into the curling hair below the navel. "Release me," he commanded, clenching his hands around the Italian belt.

Methos did not release him. The cinnamon perfume hung heavily over the barge. The distant lights outside the porthole gleamed on his oiled skin as he eased onto the bed between MacLeod's spread knees. Leaning in over his prey, he stole a long, spiced kiss.

Arching to meet the kiss, MacLeod brushed Methos' bare torso. Skin tingling hot in the cool barge air, he fought for every tiny contact between them.

Methos finally ended the kiss and hovered over MacLeod, studying every plane of his body, every twitch of his skin, storing the memory away from the enemy of time.

"Release me," MacLeod whispered, his hands opening, pleading mutely.

Methos laid one finger on MacLeod's lips, his expression set and utterly focussed. "When I am done."

MacLeod snapped at the finger, sucking, tasting. Methos laughed at his small rebellion, withdrawing the digit undamaged and reaching down to tickle the base of MacLeod's balls unmercifully.

"When I am done," he repeated with a nearly evil smile.

Methos measured himself fully upon the Highlander's body, touching him everywhere but where he wanted most, sharing the searing heat of the oil, massaging it deeply into even the sensitive hollows under the biceps, along his ribs, inside his knotted thighs. Only MacLeod's cock was left neglected, weeping.

 

 **Amanda**

Methos snapped alert, the haze of sex stripped away so quickly that they both cried out at the loss. He scanned the room with a massive frown and retrieved his sword from under the bed. "Wait here, MacLeod," he snapped, as the buzz washed over both of them. "There's a knife taped to the bedpost behind your right hand, if it's not who I think it is." Amanda wasn't the only one who hid things in MacLeod's bed.

Methos eeled up the stairs and whirled out onto the deck.

"A present? For me? How thoughtful." Amanda openly admired Methos' technically perfect swordsman's stance. It was particularly impressive when posed naked. She glided to Methos and curled her arms over his shoulders, giving him a light but lingering kiss.

Methos shook his head, and plowed on. "What about the other little matter? O'Roarke's Watcher?"

"Joe spotted him on the way to his place." Amanda met Methos' eyes, her own level and cold. "I said goodbye to Joe at the door, and circled around. There was a bit of an accident involving a short drop and a large bus. You don't need to worry about him any more."

"Does Joe know?"

"Maybe. Probably. He hasn't changed his mind. He thinks he's become too much of a danger to Duncan. To all of us. He's leaving Paris." Amanda said shortly.

Methos let the sword droop and huddled in the lee of the barge cabin. "Before Duncan can leave him. Again. We'll have to keep MacLeod here a few days so Joe isn't blamed for his disappearance. Again. Are you willing to help?" Methos arched one brow suggestively.

"I wouldn't miss it for the Prize," Amanda promised merrily.

"How is Joe?" Methos asked, his eyes searching her back trail and the balustrade overlooking the quay.

"He's rather wonderful, really," Amanda declared.

"I thought I ordered bed rest," Methos glared.

"I assure you, we were in bed the whole time," Amanda said innocently.

"If I had written "sexual healing" on the prescription, I would have remembered," Methos pointed out.

"And a very memorable encounter it was. You're just jealous."

"I have had my hands full with the other patient," Methos responded loftily, not bothering to deny her claim. He led her back into the barge, carefully stowing his sword. "Christmas came early," he said, grandly gesturing to the bed, where MacLeod had only partly sawn through the nice Italian belt.

"A present? For me? How thoughtful!" Amanda purred, neatly plucking the knife away. "And such a pretty wrapping, too," Amanda admired. "All it needs is a bow. Right here." She tweaked his shaft just under the purpling mushroom head.

"This has gone far enough," MacLeod warned in a very low voice. "Cut me loose, Amanda."

"You underestimate your friends, MacLeod. How far they will go for you," Methos said thoughtfully, as he drew a new symbol on the sole of MacLeod's foot, making his toes curl and breath catch. A circle. Thirteen stations. A ram's skull. "For instance, you have a talent for self-flagellation. But it's really not necessary to exercise it so often."

Amanda sat down at the head of the bed and patted his chest. "You really needn't torture yourself, Duncan. Not when you have friends with far, far more experience. Be a dear, Methos, and hand me that teak chest?"


End file.
